When did I decide I absolutely had to get out, no matter the cost?
It wasn’t after the first time he called me a “whore” or a “fat cow” or a “whale.”
Not the first time he put his fist through a wall.
Nor the first time he threw something at me or cornered me in a room.
It wasn’t when he told me he fantasizes about shooting me in my sleep before committing suicide.
Not when he held a loaded gun to my head as I sat on the floor, crying and begging for my life.
It wasn’t when I lied and told someone I’d dropped gym equipment on myself in order to explain my bruises.
It wasn’t while I used foundation to try to cover up my bruises so that I wouldn’t have to explain them again.
It wasn’t when he humiliated me to my family.
Not when he trapped me inside moving vehicles while threatening to crash. It wasn’t when he forced me out of the vehicle on a deserted highway because I accidentally played a song he didn’t like.
It wasn’t when he told a man to “just rape her” while I was asleep and then screamed at me relentlessly after that man took his advice.
Nor was it when he shoved a camera in my face to record my panic attacks to “show people how crazy you are.”
It wasn’t when he dared me to kill myself and told me that nobody would be surprised if I ended up dead because I am “nuts.”
It was when I told someone. That’s when I knew I had to leave.
It was when I was forced to see him through someone else’s eyes. It was when a friend asked me what he’d done to me, and I answered honestly for the first time. It was when I heard the horror and fear in the voices of my friends and family when I described his behavior. It was when I started to run out of excuses for him, even though I was still trying desperately to find them. It was once I had told enough people that there was no turning back.
It wasn’t always an upward, linear progression. But telling my story gave me the first glimpse of freedom I’d seen in many years. Telling my story saved my life.
Telling your story isn’t always healing. Some people will judge you. They’ll blame you. They’ll dismiss you. They’ll ridicule you for staying. Or for leaving. Or for speaking out.
“Stop trying to destroy his friendships by talking about this.”
“If it was so bad, why didn’t you leave?”
“I believe you, but why should that impact my relationship with him? He wouldn’t hurt his friends.”
“I don’t believe you. I know him. He wouldn’t do that.”
Or the police: “You clearly made bad life decisions, so it makes sense that these things happened to you- if they really happened at all. Women tend to exaggerate.”
At first, I felt like these responses might destroy me. Having the courage to tell someone your story, and watching it get turned on you? It’s devastating. It’s infuriating.
But it wasn’t traumatic enough to outweigh the love and support I also received. People who made themselves targets of his abuse by supporting me. People who were unequivocally on my side. People who offered me places to stay. People who cared for my animals. People who gave me understanding when I couldn’t be the student I wanted to be. People who cooked me dinners. People who read over court documents with me. People who answered my hysterical 2am phone calls.
People who listened. People who believed.
Even if you aren’t fortunate enough to have these people in your personal life, you can find them. There are online networks of survivors. Support groups at your local domestic violence organization. Domestic violence hotlines.
Find someone, anyone, you can trust. Tell them everything. Watch how their validation becomes the spark that helps you start validating yourself.
Your perceptions are accurate. You’re not crazy. The abuse is real. It’s crushing. It’s terrifying. It’s unfair.
You deserve better, and you will find it. Your voice can be the first step in saving yourself.
Use it.
